


SinfullSinner666

by ItsLexAgain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a poet, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-05-02 02:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19190080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsLexAgain/pseuds/ItsLexAgain
Summary: Since Eden Crowley tried to express his emotions towards Aziraphale by writing them down. Poems, little hymns even, all dedicated to Aziraphale. But due to Aziraphale's passion for literature, Crowley's too afraid to show any of them. Maybe they're not good enough for his angel, maybe his love isn't even mutual. That was until Aziraphale discovered all these poems by himself.





	1. Prologue - From Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my dear reader.  
> Originally this story was written in German, but due to one of my very dearest friends this whole piece got translated. Thank you!
> 
> So, this is my dedication to the fucking slow burn that's called Crowley's and Aziraphale's relationship.

~×~×

 

Since Eden, Crowley had begun to express and write down his emotions. Little poems, even hymns of praise. First on parchment, then on paper, and then finally on his own blog, which he had lovingly named “SinfullSinner666”. His real goal, however, was sinking them directly into Aziraphale's skin. Memorizing every single poem, whispering them into the smooth, soft spots of Aziraphale's skin – one verse would drown in the distorted corners of his mouth, another in his ear, he would whisper the next verse against the sensitive skin of his neck, and with another deep breath he would finish the final verse against his full lips.

And Crowley knew them all by heart. It didn't matter whether the poem was just a single week or six thousand years old – every single word wandered around in his mind, wrapped around his brain and pushed him to finally say them out loud. But he preferred taking the safer route, the quieter one. The route that would save him the trouble of having to expect rejection, or an embarrassed laugh. He knew how much his angel loved literature, and his fear of being incapable of keeping up with it (especially not with Oscar Wilde!) forced his bravery to its knees every single time.

Shakespeare probably would have punished him with laughter if he told him that he was writing poems for his enthusiastic companion, who enjoyed shouting good-spirited comments up to the stage, and never even thought about reciting them to him. Although the thought of standing on a big stage underneath the halo of a spotlight and speaking these words directly towards the angel in the audience did speak to Crowley's inner drama queen. No matter how kitschy or painfully romantic these poems might be, Shakespeare would definitely be the last person to judge him for his choice of words. For a brief moment back then Crowley even thought that Aziraphale might not even find his poems that terrible. This thought, however, vanished from his mind just as quickly as his fascination for Shakespeare.

But the worst thing was Crowley's acquaintance with the modern age. The internet was such a huge platform for a poor, misunderstood artist like him, and not only did it offer him an opportunity to be heard but it also gave him inspiration. Inspiration, however, had never been something that Crowley lacked as an author. Aziraphale only had to look in his general direction, or sweetly smile at him because he had made a stupid joke, and immediately, Crowley came up with a million new ideas. He was willing to accept an audience that was offered to him, however. At least for now. It was nice to know that his poems were devoured by his readers' greedy eyes, that these thousands of years worth of practice hadn't gone to waste and that at least someone was reading them – even if these people weren't Aziraphale. 

Terrible, however, were these encouraging comments; small attempts to make the author finally confess to his beloved person. Even worse, perhaps, were the people that told him to tell him everything so that the world would finally be liberated from this awful kitsch. At some point in the future, Crowley would personally take care of the person who wrote this comment. And yet, none of these comments helped convince Crowley to place one of his works in front of Aziraphale's eyes. Most times he just shook his head, closed his laptop and opened up his notebook. Perhaps he would delete his blog. After all, the approval of these people wasn't really what he was looking for.

That was until Crowley was killing time inside Aziraphale's bookstore one day. He had gotten comfortable in one of his wing chairs and placed his feet on the small table in front of him, in spite of Aziraphale's repeated pleas not to do so. At least the angel had managed to convince him to take off his heavy shoes, so that the wood wouldn't be damaged. Crowley's eyes were pointed at a book in his hands. Recently, he had been trying to appear willing to educate himself. Aziraphale was stunned by Crowley's newly acquired fondness for reading and, passionately, told him about all of his favorite works and recommended other books and authors to him. The only reason behind Crowley's interest for books, however, was just that passion of Aziraphale as well as getting another easy chance to inconspicuously visit the bookstore and watch his angel more often. And so it happened that Crowley got to listen to a heated conversation between Aziraphale and one of his customers. Apparently, they were talking about Brecht's love poems, and the customer wanted to know whether the angel had a collection of them in stock. Of course he did, but Aziraphale was the last person who would admit that. The customer's small disappointment ended in a deep discussion about romantic literature, and Crowley could see his angel's eyes light up in excitement every now and then from where he was sitting. He tried his very best to hide his smile behind his book.

“Ah, remember the good old days, when 'love' still had a meaning? Yes, when love and nature were united, when the girls turned into flowers and everything rhymed!”, the customer mused. 

“Oh yes, the rhymes. Sometimes I do miss them, yes. Ever since the days of the Trümmerliteratur there has been a certain lack of a pattern, and I can't quite figure out what to think of it. I really liked all these schemes, they always gave poems a certain...something. Or maybe I just haven't read into it enough yet, maybe that's it. I must say that I am a bit of a fanatic when it comes to the old classics”, Aziraphale smiled as he conscientiously placed some books back in their respective shelves.

The customer followed his moves with his eyes and snorted. “Surely. I just can't seem to get into modern literature. Now that everyone can put their scribblings online, seeking for some sort of validation.”

Wondering, the angel raised one of his brows. “How do you mean that?”

“Surely you have visited literary blogs before, on the internet?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. I'm no good with electronics and such.”

The customer understandingly patted his shoulder. “Oh, it'll come to you eventually. At some point, it becomes inevitable. Sadly. I haven't found a single piece of literature worth reading there before. But if you'd like to have a good laugh, I could definitely give you some recommendations. “

“I absolutely am not one to judge the literature of others”, spoke Aziraphale, returning to his counter with the customer right behind him.

“Don't worry, this is far away from discussing whether Franz Kafka was a good author or not”, laughed the customer. “Here, I'll write some things down for you. Literature fanatics like ourselves should be allowed to rant about things like these sometimes, I should think.”

Aziraphale traced the swift writing of the customer with his eyes and definitely couldn't deny that even he had gotten a little curious about this. “These are authors?”, he asked confusedly as he read the note.

“Wannabes”, the customer corrected him, and left the store with a nod of his head. 

Crowley had quietly watched the scene unfold before him, his heart weighing heavily in his chest. He put on a critical look when Aziraphale walked towards him to get another cup of hot chocolate. He wanted to say something, something to defend Franz Kafka maybe, or something to show him that he had actually been reading the book he was holding in his hands. But before he could think of something, his voice failed him and his world shattered before him.

“'Sinfullsinner666? Is this how people call their children these days?”, Aziraphale spoke under his breath as he went past Crowley.

With a loud bang, Crowley closed his book, disappeared into his home and opened up his laptop.

 

~×~×~

 

& i think to myself  
with you dies all beauty  
& pierced by cupid's arrow  
before you, I drop to my knees.


	2. Chapter 1: The Many Embarrassments of Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> here's the first chapter. Again, one of my dearest friends did the whole translation job here - thank you very much, hun! My best friend also drew some lil super cute fanart for the prolog, I feel honored.

 

 

****

by [her](https://tonixaly.tumblr.com/).

 

 

**Chapter 1 – The Many Embarrassments of Crowley**

 

 

_i never spend one minute_

_of our eternity not thinking_

_about you & only you._

 

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Crowley's swears had, in a strange fashion, adjusted to the sounds of his typing. Of course some idiot had to tell his angel about his blog. Without even praising it to high heaven! He should have known from the beginning that this was a crappy idea. Not only had he brought to light what he had been trying to hide for thousands of years, he had also turned himself into a perfect target. He had heard that customer shit all over his poems and call him a “wannabe”, and if anyone were to ask Crowley about it he would most certainly get terribly upset. He was merely trying to vent his emotions, and it definitely wasn't his fault that his poems had gotten increasingly kitschy over the course of six thousand years. If anything, it was Aziraphale's fault!

All those longing verses about Aziraphale's loving eyes? Entire poems about his angel's heavenly laughter? Verse after verse about his desire for the angel? Now, if Aziraphale were to stop being so good and loving all the damn time to prevent him from falling deeper and deeper in love with him, then he most definitely wouldn't be writing these kitschy things anymore! He was merely a slave of his emotions.

With an annoyed groan, Crowley threw back his head. He just couldn't find the fucking “Delete” button to erase his blog. Could he even delete all this? He had heard some teenagers talk about how the internet “never forgets”. Crowley swallowed. What if the internet really wouldn't ever forget this embarrassment – and what if Aziraphale didn't, either?

His angel had claimed that he would never make fun of the work of other authors, but Crowley wasn't even capable of competing with any other authors out there. Aziraphale would likely just scoff at his work and immediately destroy his pathetic attempts at being a writer. Worse yet, he might even pity him. He knew Aziraphale's pity all too well, and he didn't want to become a victim of it for anything in the world. His demonic heart wasn't afraid of many things, but being eyeballed by the angel with one hand before his chest, exclaiming “Oh, my dear!” in _that_ tone of voice, that would be the end of him. And by “end”, he meant exactly that. End. He wouldn't ever be capable of making eye contact with his angel ever again.

And Crowley really didn't need more reasons than that. Quickly, he got back to deleting his blog from the internet. Somewhere underneath the black and red UI of the site that “Delete” button would be hiding, and he was firmly determined to find it. But all he could find were his sad attempts at writing. In an almost tormenting way, he looked at them.

“Not everyone's a Poe, alright?”, he grumbled.

Perhaps he should just have the whole city of London short-circuit? Then at least Aziraphale wouldn't be able to access his blog if he hadn't done so already, and Crowley would have more time. Just a little miracle, for his own survival.

But before Crowley could snap his fingers, a notification appeared on the screen of his laptop. With one brow raised, the demon clicked on the small box and was redirected to one of his poems. Annoyed, he rolled his eyes – he definitely couldn't handle another hate comment right now, his time was much too precious for that.

 

 

♛♔♕♚ **SinfullSinner666:**

maybe there's no way out for us

not one single key fitting for us

& we're trapped inside this space

with ourselves & all these

unspoken words between us

words i'd whisper to you too lovingly

but it'd be too much for you & us.

\-----------

**jacuzzilover:**

got a better idea for ya: just shut the fuck up already

\----------

**Anonymous:**

Dear SinfullSinner666,

I do not agree with Mr./Mrs. Jacuzzilover even in the slightest. I find myself quite enjoying your work. Of course, there is always space to learn, room to improve, but this is a very good start! This is the first poem of yours that I have ever read, and I can tell that you are someone who wishes to be heard. Well, consider yourself heard! I shall keep on reading your work – so “keep it coming”, as the youths would say.

Sincerely,

Anonymous (because I didn't quite figure out how to name myself)

\----------------

 

Crowley shook his head in disbelief. There was only one person in the whole damn world who would put his signature under his comments in an online forum like it was a formal fucking letter in this day and age – and who would also assume “Jacuzzilover” to be a real surname.

So Aziraphale had actually managed to read one of his poems before he got to delete his blog, and he didn't hate it? He didn't find it embarrassing? He wanted to read more of them? He liked Crowley's writing? Well, it's not like he knew that Crowley was the author, but still, this had not been a complete disaster. Perhaps this blog wasn't such a terrible idea after all?

The demon let go of his laptop for a moment. After six thousand years Aziraphale had finally read one of his works. Hadn't he been working towards this very moment all this time? Even if it hadn't been quite what he planned. A small grin made its way into his expression. His fingertips swiftly glided over the keyboard, and, satisfied, he clicked “Send”.

 

♛♔♕♚ **SinfullSinner666:**

Too generous.

\-----------

 

At the same time, inside a bookstore in central London, a dusty computer monitor flickered. Next to the ancient keyboard were an opened manual and a cold cup of cocoa. The angel had finally managed to expel even the final customer from his store (no, the autographed edition of the Holy Bible was _not,_ in fact, for sale) and was curiously looking through the blog of the so-called “SinfullSinner666“. He failed to understand how anyone could ever prefer the flickering of a dusty old computer over a good book, much like he didn't understand why no-one had a decent name anymore these days. And besides, all these negative comments were making him uneasy.

He had barely finished writing a nice answer, and already another poem caught his attention. SinfullSinner666 was...not terrible. After all the mean things that customer had said about this person's works, his expectations were greatly surpassed. Of course this wasn't a poem a lá Heine – but that hadn't been what he was looking for in the first place.

Aziraphale stumbled upon poem after poem, some of them piqued his interest more, others less. Some of them brought a smirk to his face, some were practically oozing kitsch, but exactly that started drawing him in more and more. He felt like he was back in the old days, when he walked off with Goethe to get his copy of “The Sorrows of Young Werther“ signed by the author himself – sadly, that exact copy had never reappeared after the fire.

The angel reached for the cup of cocoa next to him, but before he could react in disappointment over the fact that it had gone cold, a German poem caught his eye:

 

 

♛♔♕♚ **SinfullSinner666:**

nichts könnt' je das gefühl vertuschen                             _nothing could ever hide the feeling_

in meiner brust, wenn ich dich aufsuche                         _inside my chest, when i seek you out_

der drang zu springen von erniedrigter höh'                  _the urge to jump from alow height_

& zu landen in deinen armen                                         _& to land in your arms_

du würdest mich fangen, vielleicht sogar gern              _you would catch me, perhaps even gladly_

ohne fragen zu stellen, die ich nicht erhör'                  _without asking questions which i won't hear_

ich würde jedoch nur dort liegen                                _but i would just be lying there_

vor deinen füßen, berauscht & zerfallen                      _before your feet, intoxicated & crumbling_

zerplittert vom fall, der hoch nicht wirklich war           _shattered from the fall of little height_

aber bis auf die knochen ging                                     _which crushed my bones_

& aufs herz allemal.                                                   & _especially my heart._

_\-----------_

**Anonymous:**

Lieber SinfullSinner666,

mir gefällt dieses Gedicht sehr. Kommen Sie ursprünglich aus Deutschland? Ich spreche ein wenig Deutsch selber, ansonsten hätte ich unglücklicherweise Ihr Gedicht auch nicht verstehen können. Es ist immer gut, ein wenig Wandelbarkeit in seinen Werken zu haben.

Liebe Grüße  
Anonymous *

\------------

 

Aziraphale smiled. Against his will, he felt like he was back in that church, where he stood with the Germans. Never had he felt such loneliness before in his life, and never had he felt so intimidated. He had gotten himself into a truly unpleasant situation back then – and of course, Crowley had been the one to come and save him. Wandering around on the holy grounds of the church, saving Aziraphale and his books.

Of course he had trusted the demon before that incident, too. Crowley had never failed him, had never planted a doubtful thought inside his mind, and had never turned against him. But still, that time was different.

The nazis were his problem, the whole situation was his fault. He, as an angel, had trusted the wrong people once again and had almost paid for his mistake with his life. And Crowley was there. He was just there. He had likely been watching the situation for a while, or perhaps he had just sensed that Aziraphale had terribly messed up somehow.

And as Aziraphale was standing there in the remains of the church, his ears still ringing from the explosion, he couldn't possibly have admired Crowley any more than he did. But when he handed him his dusty bag with all his favorite books, a crooked grin on his face, and said “a little demonic miracle of my own“ – that's when Aziraphale truly knew he had fallen for him.

It had taken the angel years, no, decades until he was finally capable of naming all the emotions that he felt in relation to Crowley. Not only had Crowley proven that he was in no way affiliated with Nazi-Germany (the angel would never have spoken to him again if that hadn't been the case), but he had also proven that he was a good, even empathetic person deep on the inside. And Crowley had managed to communicate to Aziraphale that he was on his side.

The thought of spending eternity with Crowley had been inside his mind since Eden. But since Germany, this thought had taken on a whole other dimension. Romantic dinners at the Ritz, another armchair next to the other lonely one in his bookstore, he would gift Crowley a new pair of shades with the beginning of every new decade, even more romantic dinners at the Ritz, and he was pretty sure that Crowley would get him as many Crêpes as possible. Perhaps he would even try one himself one day? Aziraphale had almost forgotten the red wine. The two of them would have so much time to find the best red wine there is together, to get drunk and have ridiculous conversations (Crowley was fantastic at that). Then they would get sober together, spend days and nights together in bed without ever leaving the house, and Crowley would read his favorite books to him (Aziraphale loved his voice) while the angel would be amused at Crowley's furious hatred for Oscar Wilde. An eternity of shared memories was in their past, and Aziraphale couldn't stop smiling at the thought of another eternity of new memories in their future.

Aziraphale wasn't quite sure whether he had just fallen in love with him in that church back then or if he had only realized it in that moment. All he knew was that there was a strong aura of love around him ever since then, and that he was glad that Crowley was incapable of feeling love. Only God knew how embarrassing it would be if the demon ever found out.

Or the heavens. Aziraphale knew that he was no longer on heaven's side. His side was now...next to Crowley? Ever since both of them had left their sides the angel didn't quite know what to do with himself. He had sacrificed his entire existence to the heavens, and it had taken its toll on him. Even now that he was all by himself, he could still hear Gabriel's voice in his ears every now and then.

“Really? You teamed up with the _demon_? Did it ever occur to you that he might just be tempting you, in order to send you down to hell? Tempting a greedy angel is quite a feat, after all. And you, Aziraphale, are _idiotic_ enough to fall for it.“

Of course Aziraphale didn't think this way about Crowley. The demon didn't even have the kind of patience it would take to dedicate six thousand years to a single project. But still, Gabriel remained within his subconsciousness, and he was completely incapable of just turning the angel's voice off. It bothered him. No, it annoyed him.

Why couldn't he just be as calm and carefree as Crowley?

Because Crowley had already fallen. What if Aziraphale could still lose his wings?

Lost in deep thought, Aziraphale realized that he had already reached the final poem of the page.

 

 

♛♔♕♚ **SinfullSinner666:**

everything fades

rots in a dark void

birds stop singing

but my angel keeps on.

\--------------

 

Aziraphale would be quite happy if he could actually choose if he wants to sing – and he would like to choose the song, too.

The angel's expression warped. As he was typing one letter, he was already searching for the next one on his keyboard. After a little while he had finished his short comment, straightened out his vest and put down his reading glasses. He clicked “Send“ and got up to make himself another cup of cocoa.

 

 

**Anonymous:**

Dear SinfullSinner666,

please note: angels do not sing.

Sincerely,

Anonymous

\-------------

 

At the same time, just a few blocks away, Crowley dumbfoundly dropped an already dying potted plant to the ground and stared at the screen of his laptop.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Dear SinfullSinner666,
> 
> this poem is also very much to my liking. Are you originally from Germany? I speak a bit of German myself, fortunately, otherwise I probably would never have understood this one. It is always a good thing to have some variety in one's works! 
> 
> Sincerely  
> Anonymus


	3. The Many Doubts of Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, dear reader
> 
> again I want to give a big shout-out at the beginning for my dear friend who's doing the whole translation job, thanks hun.   
> Well, here we are, back again at the continuous endlessly pinning of these two idiots.

 

 

**Chapter 2 – The Many Doubts of Aziraphale**

_where there were_  
_just scars_  
_you carved in  
_ _a smile._

Yes, of course, Crowley knew that angels don't sing. They couldn't if they tried. There were all those myths and rumors involving “angelic singing”, about heavenly songs and all the tiny angels singing along with their wonderful voices. In truth, however, angels couldn't even hit a single note. Because of this, the angels were very embarrassed about all these rumors and even went so far as to entirely prohibit singing in heaven so that no-one would ever find out the truth. Such perfect beings, and yet they couldn't even sing perfectly?

But just like with the saying “angels don't dance”, there was an exception to this rule as well. Crowley was more than surprised when he once found Aziraphale in the “100 Guineas Club” in Poland and observed the angel do the _gavotte._ The demon could hardly believe his eyes. So many people stating that angels would never, under no circumstances whatsoever dance (and especially not in a discreet gentlemen's club) and yet there was his angel of all people, looking happier than ever before. He was looking around in delight as he was dancing with the other dancers, and when Crowley saw Aziraphale's smile he immediately started thinking about all the ways of making it permanent.

That's probably part of the reason why Crowley wasn't very surprised when he heard Aziraphale sing. Of course, he wasn't good at it, his voice failed him completely whenever he tried hitting a high note. And yet he always wore a smile on his face when he was singing, and Crowley was pretty sure that he didn't even notice himself starting to sing a little song most times. Often, he would walk around his store and move some books here and there, quietly warbling away all the while. Sometimes when they were driving around in the Bentley and Aziraphale was rather disconcerted about Crowley's style of driving, he would hum a melody. And it was almost always the same song. For quite a few years now, Aziraphale had stuck with precisely one song, and Crowley confusedly admired the fact that he still hadn't gotten sick of it yet (and this came from someone who has exclusively been listening to _Queen_ songs for years).

 

I hope you don't mind

That I put down in words

How wonderful life is

While you're in the world

 

Aziraphale didn't know a whole lot of songs, singers or bands, and he most definitely had no idea who Elton John was until Crowley had told him. “Your Song” had been the first song that he actively and willingly listened to, and still hadn't stopped listening to this day. The heavens would likely scold him for his taste in music, but then again, the heavens didn't approve of most music.

 This made Crowley even more confused about Aziraphale's comment. “Angels do not sing”. Yes, they do! Well, at least _his_ angel did, he had heard him do it many times before. But somehow the demon could guess what this was really about. He had sensed it before when the angel told him that they no longer belonged to any sides, that they belonged neither to hell nor to heaven – Aziraphale felt lost. Crowley had seen heaven's cruelty toward traitors with his own eyes. Twice. He hadn't been very upset about the fact that he had fallen back then, but he was quite angry at the heavens for taking such drastic measures. But during the second time, when Crowley was standing directly before Gabriel and his disgusting crew, he was ablaze with anger and hatred. If they hadn't taken measures to prevent it, they would have let Aziraphale burn to death. Ice cold, without remorse or shame. Every time when Aziraphale was speaking about his superiors and added that Gabriel was mean, but “did a good job”, Crowley never would have guessed that he was such a huge asshole. How he treated Aziraphale and talked to him – hell's fires were burning inside of Crowley. But at least Crowley now understood why Aziraphale was always so afraid of communicating with him. Gabriel wouldn't just turn his life into hell if he found out (indeed, he would probably let him fall), but he would do the same to Crowley, too.

 And this fear was still right there, inside of Aziraphale. Obviously.

 Crowley sighed and looked down at the shattered potted plant he had dropped. He wished that he could convince Aziraphale that the heavens couldn't harm him anymore somehow.

 And it was actually kind of sad that his angel denied singing so vehemently – even if he wasn't very good at it, Crowley still very much enjoyed listening to him.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

On Sundays, Aziraphale kept his store closed, which is probably why Sunday was his favorite day of the week. But it was also because Crowley had recently started coming over to the store to pick up a new book every Sunday (which was obviously just an excuse, but Aziraphale didn't need to know about that).

 “Angel!” Crowley greeted him when he opened up the locked door and then locked it again with a small miracle.

 Aziraphale was sitting in his wing chair and smiled, but he didn't put down his book.

 “Today I've been thinking about... _Pride and Prejudice_. I'm assuming you have a copy?”, asked Crowley as he eyed down the shelves. He had begun “reading” books that had already been adapted into movies, so that he could, in an emergency, wow Aziraphale with his knowledge of the plot.

 The angel nodded toward one of the shelves next to the counter. “Of course, my dear. It is merely the manuscript, I hope that's good enough for you. Miss Austen personally gifted it to me back then.”

 Clumsily, Crowley walked toward the shelf. “I'm really beginning to wonder where you've been and who you've met throughout the history of literature.”

 For a little moment, Aziraphale looked up from his book. “Almost everywhere, and everyone, but I did not enjoy all of it.”

 Crowley slid his fingers over the covers. “How do you mean that?”

 “Well, for example, I'm not a huge fan of Edgar Allen Poe. I have a couple of his works, even autographed, but I never exactly loved his literature”, the angel admitted, flipping to the next page.

 “Why not? Too scary?”, the demon grinned.

 Aziraphale hesitated for a moment before quietly continuing: “W-well, uhm...yes.”

 Mockingly, Crowley snorted. He had found the manuscript of _Pride and Prejudice_ and took it from the shelf. Directly next to it, there was a copy of _The Happy Prince_ by Oscar Wilde. Crowley rolled his eyes and moved the book a few rows further down – out of sight, out of mind.

 “I never thought of you as a realist!”, stated Aziraphale. The demon looked at him confusedly. Aziraphale pointed at the book in his hands.

 “That's Romanticism, no?”, Crowley wondered.

 “My dear, just because it's a love story doesn't mean it's automatically Romanticism!”

 No, Crowley didn't know that. After all, he had never given literature too much thought. Well, aside from his own poems. “I did not think of you as a romantic either, though”, the angel added with a playful smile, the same smile which recently seemed to appear rather frequently on his face.

 If only his angel knew. _“No romantic.”_

 Crowley shrugged and sat down on the coffee table with his legs crossed. “I wouldn't get hit by Cupid's arrow and then drop to my knees if that's what you mean.”

 “No, no”, Aziraphale negated with a bit of hesitation. These words seemed familiar to him, somehow. “Well, no, I don't know. Whether demons can even be struck by Cupid at all. Or angels, for that matter. I believe the arrows are reserved to the humans.”

Silently, Crowley nodded. Perhaps that was right, but that didn't change the fact that he could sometimes feel the wound left in his heart by the arrow as though it was really there.

 “Speaking of angels”, Crowley began, carefully sliding his hand over the manuscript's cover, “Any news on Gabriel?”

 Aziraphale immediately tensed up. “No”, he croaked.

 “Hastur never showed up at my place again, either. And it's better that way.”

 “You probably frightened Gabriel and the others quite a bit with your performance in heaven, my dear”, laughed Aziraphale. But the laugh was voiceless.

 Crowley smiled. “And you did the same for my folks down in hell. I would have loved to see their faces when you pretended to be me and were soaked in holy water without burning to death. Hastur must have gone completely nuts.”

 “I have to admit that it was rather amusing.”

 The demon had observed how the angel was still looking down at his book but hadn't flipped pages in quite some time. “Do you ever regret it?”

 “Pardon?”

“Do you ever regret it? I mean, neither one of us can ever go back. They probably think I'm some satanic adversary that can't even be killed by holy water, and they likely assume you to be some crazed angel, unfazed even by the fires of hell. With that, we've ruined our final chance for redemption, if it ever even existed in the first place. And now, we have an eternity before us, and we can neither go back to hell nor heaven.”

 “And you're asking me whether I regret it sometimes?”

 Crowley nodded and fixated the angel with a fierce look in his eyes. “Exactly.”

 “Well, I..” Aziraphale sighed and closed his book. “I doubt it's as final as you make it out to be.”

 The demon looked questioningly at the angel.

 “Of course I don't _regret_ it. But I don't think that we can never come back. It was just a measure to give us a moment of peace for now, some time to breathe. I am pretty certain that heaven and hell will soon realize that it was right to avoid the apocalypse, and then our situation will get better as well.”

 “ _Get better?”_ , Crowley hissed. “What do you mean, _get better_? We finally got rid of them, our sides have just been fighting each other like little children since the beginning of time and they wanted to destroy the world for their little war. If you ask me, this here is the best possible thing that could have happened to us!”

 Aziraphale looked at the demon before him. “Yes, well, that's true, but it's still our home, Crowley.”

 “Heaven and hell are not our home, angel! How could you still think that even after all that's happened? They wanted to _burn_ you, dammit. If it hadn't been for me, you'd be dead by now! They would have killed you, just like that. That's not exactly what I have in mind when I think of the word 'home'!” Crowley condescendingly spat out these words.

 “Heaven has always been my home”, Aziraphale mumbled. He didn't deny Crowley's words; he knew that the heavens had recently made some terrible decisions. But he was an angel and didn't know any better.

“This is about your wings, isn't it?”, Crowley asked. “Are you still afraid of falling? You can't fall anymore, Aziraphale! They no longer have that power over you, you don't need to kiss their asses anymore!”

 Aziraphale shook his head in confusion. “No, this is not about my wings, I...I have never even committed a sin bad enough to make me fall.”

 Angrily, Crowley smashed the manuscript down on the coffee table. “Of course you haven't!”

 Of course, the angel had never committed a sin, of course, he never sinned, of course not. Crowley was the only sinner in the room, and his sin was falling in love with Aziraphale. And he was incredibly angry about the fact that Aziraphale didn't even consider that he might be sinning at all. It didn't even need to be a huge sin. A single one would be enough. Just a single one. Loving Crowley would be the only sin he would need to commit, and he couldn't even fall anymore because of that.

But Crowley didn't know that Aziraphale had already committed this sin years ago.

 “Of course you've never sinned, and how could you? You're not like me, I'm full of sin, and that's why I fell in the first place. That's why you're all looking down on me like that. Because we're all so soaked with sin and you're all so pure!”

 “Would you please stop screaming?”, begged Aziraphale quietly. He had seemingly grown a little smaller in his wing chair and was holding his book in front of his chest as though it was a shield. He had never seen Crowley get so angry before.

 The demon took a deep breath and got up. “If you really need heaven as your home, then go back. I won't stop you. I just had that stupid thought that all this here”, Crowley gestured, pointing his fingers at everything surrounding him, and finally at himself, “would suffice, as your home. But apparently, I was wrong.”

 And with that, he was gone. Aziraphale stared at the manuscript of _Pride and Prejudice_ that was lying on the coffee table, abandoned and expelled.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Six thousand years. For six thousand years, Crowley had been waiting, hoping and waiting even more. It just took him a minute in the gardens of Eden and an eternity after that to realize that he was in love. And every time he believed that there was even a tiny chance of his feelings being reciprocated, he was greeted by disappointment. Instead, he always had to deal with multiple variations of the same exact statement: “You're too fast for me, Crowley.”

 What was it that the angel wanted him to do? Was he supposed to wait another six thousand years until he would finally decide that he was ready to accept his feelings? If not now, then when? But instead, Aziraphale once again wanted to escape into the arms of his oh so beloved heaven. When would the angel finally understand that his arms were also an option?

 And _of course,_ Crowley was now so angered and charged with emotion that he was 100% ready to finally delete his blog. _It's getting too ridiculous,_ he thought to himself. But when he opened up his laptop, he immediately encountered some new notifications. Some of them were from earlier this morning before he had gone to the bookstore.

 

 

**♛♔♕♚** **sinfullsinner666:**

 

you've got the softest face of all

with dreamlike eyes so small

tinted blue & they caught

me from my fall

you've got that smile made for the sun

this little grin makes me come undone

framed with reddish lips that I

love a ton.

 

\---------------

 

**Anonymous:**

Dear Sinfullsinner666,

if this person saved you from your fall, then you truly are a lucky human. I personally have a friend who was not saved from falling, but I have now made it my duty to save him from everything else.

Sincerely,

Anonymous

 

\---------------

 

 

Crowley once again felt the wound that Cupid's arrow had left in his heart aching.

 

 

**♛♔♕♚** **sinfullsinner666:**

 

i destroy everything

true beauty runs cold

in my hands

& the last rays of the sun

freeze in my sight

i'm not capable

of doing nice things

neither am I good enough

to keep them alive

 

\---------------

 

**Anonymous:**

Dear Sinfullsinner666,

once again, incredible work. I can relate to this, on an aesthetic and emotional level; I like these kinds of poems the most. I can understand your feelings.

 Sincerely,

Anonymous

 

\---------------

 

 

_Aziraphale_ could understand and relate to this feeling? But how? Everything he touched seemed to be teeming with life.

The last comment had been posted only a few minutes ago. Crowley swallowed and clicked on the notification.

**♛♔♕♚** **sinfullsinner666:**

 

god gave up her will to live

since she looked into your eyes

deep blue, true innocence

satan forgive me for i have sinned.

 

\---------------

 

**Anonymous:**

 

Dear Sinfullsinner666,

I'm beginning to notice a certain pattern in your poems. You seem to enjoy using religious symbols quite a bit. And although I cannot quite warm toward the death sentence of God, I still find myself enjoying this. I am currently in a huge crisis of faith myself, and I feel as though I am forced to decide between two sides, although this decision should be an easy one to me. Oh, what am I talking about? Please excuse my rambling, I really do enjoy your poems. Please, keep them coming! 

Sincerely,

Anonymous

 

\---------------

 

 

Crowley couldn't quite decide whether his smile should be a loving or a sad one. Although he hoped that Aziraphale would choose him in the end, he could understand why this decision might be a hard one to make for the angel. Everything that Aziraphale had so desperately been trying to explain to him earlier only now really hit him, and he began to understand. Where Crowley had neither fond memories nor good connections with heaven and hell, Aziraphale apparently had enough to make it difficult for him to completely disconnect. And now, Crowley was afraid of having pushed him in the wrong direction.

The demon poured himself a glass of red wine and sat down before his computer. With swift fingers he typed, and it didn't take too long until he had composed another poem and posted it. Quite satisfied with himself, he gazed upon the new poem and gulped down the last drop of wine from his glass.

 

**♛♔♕♚** **sinfullsinner666:**

 

there will be times when you ask yourself

too many questions, with not enough answers

you'll feel restless & lost

i only dare to understand

but i try to take over

and answer as many as possible

my answer will always be the same

steady & clear

“you're my angel!” & i'll always

be here.


	4. Chapter 3 - The Many Insights of Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings.  
> The next chapter is ready, cheers for my translator for doing this whole shit /again/ - thank you very much!

**Chapter 3 – The Many Insights of Aziraphale**

 

_eden gave me an aching pain_

_it just sent me away_

_without letting me have a single taste_

_of the most forbidden fruit_

 

After Crowley had made his dramatic exit, Aziraphale was left feeling terribly alone, forced to take a deep breath. He didn't like getting yelled at, even less if the yelling one was Crowley. The demon always had quite a fiery temperament, but he had never taken it out on Aziraphale like this before. And while the angel was sitting there, cowering in his armchair, there was nothing he wanted to do more than wrap his arms around his companion.

 

He never would have thought that Crowley would miss heaven so badly.

 

That's what this was about. Right? As he was thinking this over, Aziraphale reached for the manuscript and weighed it in his hands. Crowley had often attempted to talk him out of his plans for going back to heaven, and he had tried to convince him that he was better off living somewhere else. But this wasn't exactly easy for Aziraphale. After all, there were many other angels beside Gabriel that he did get along with quite well. Not every family is perfect, but at least he felt like they _somehow_ functioned like one.

 

Perhaps that was what Crowley missed?

 

As far as stories went, Crowley didn't seem like such an unpopular angel. He lived a life as good as any other in heaven, he had a couple of close friends and perhaps one or two partners by his side – well, at least until Lucifer showed up. The demon had once entrusted him with the story of how he got caught up in a web of terrible things that he could no longer escape from at some point. Aziraphale was pretty sure that that had been Lucifer's doing. Crowley had trusted the wrong people and was forced to leave his real friends behind, much like his pure, white wings.

 

And Aziraphale knew that Crowley didn't have a single friend in hell. He had experienced it firsthand. Hastur and Ligur were merely a byproduct of a functional sort of cooperation, and even that ended up turning against him in the end. The angel understood why Crowley was so mad.

 

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt sick to the stomach. _He_ could go back, but Crowley was locked out of heaven. Forever.

 

Aziraphale planned to assure Crowley that he would still remain by his side, even if he could go back to heaven. In fact, Aziraphale couldn't even imagine a future without Crowley by his side. But the angel knew Crowley very well and therefore understood that he should give him some time to calm down before doing anything else.

 

Since he was feeling rather melancholic, he sat down before his computer. The poems of Mr. SinfullSinner666 did a very good job of catching this kind of feeling most times. Perhaps that was exactly what he needed right now. Luckily for him, the author had actually uploaded a new poem just a few minutes ago.

 

♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:

  
there will be times when you ask yourself

too many questions, with not enough answers

you'll feel restless & lost

i only dare to understand

but I try to take over

and answer as many as possible

my answer will always be the same

steady & clear

“you're my angel!” & i'll always

be here.

 

\-----------------

 

**fuzzyhuzzy:**

Wooooow. I wish someone would write that kinda stuff for me.

 

\-----------------

 

**gabriellagomez:**

I hope you guys are finally a couple. I can hardly stand all this yearning and longing anymore!

 

\-----------------

 

**ItsLexAgain:**

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

 

\-----------------

 

**huttub:**

Can you answer just one question, please? ARE YOU STILL SINGLE??

 

\-----------------

 

 

Aziraphale smiled. “You're my angel.” Something in his heart couldn't stop him from making him feel a certain sort of longing, too. He had always loved it when Crowley called him like that – even though it sounded sort of ironic sometimes, coming from him.

 

He scrolled through the poems until he reached the point where he had stopped reading last time. At this point, he had read over a hundred of his poems, and Aziraphale began wondering where SinfullSinner666 got all this time, to write all these poems. But as long as they always remained at this level of quality, he would be the last person to start complaining.

 

 

**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

 

i love you

yes, i really do

there isn't much else to say

except: i love you

& i want you to finally know

want to make you see

want to make you feel

how you captured me

& made me whole.

 

\-----------------

 

**Ausgrenzung:**

Would be really cool if people could just sense the love of others.

 

\-----------------

 

**Anonymous:**

Dear SinfullSinner666,

 

yet another absolutely lovely poem. I am still just as amazed by your writing as I was when I read one of your poems for the first time.

 

Sincerely, still,

Anonymous

 

\-----------------

 

 

Oh, how much easier things would be if people could actually sense love. Aziraphale did not know this deficit, of course: no matter where he went, a fluffy, warm aura of love surrounded him at all times. He was so incredibly happy about the fact that there was enough love on this planet to make it impossible for him to escape it. Perhaps humans just got better and better at it over time. As he was pondering this, he noticed that these written words before him alone had an aura strong enough to envelop his entire bookstore. This author really must have meant what he wrote.

 

Perhaps a lot of these poems were a lot more literal than he thought they were. Maybe many of these metaphors were nothing but the truth? And perhaps that was the reason why it all felt so relatable to him? Without trying or wanting to, Aziraphale recalled some of his favorite poems.

 

**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

 

church is spreading its wings

covering you & your soul

but only with you presented on the altar

drinking from the holy grail

with crimson wine dripping on the stone

would i be willing to go to mass

just once or twice

 

\-----------------

 

Unwillingly, Aziraphale's thoughts went back to that church in Germany. Back to the days when the church and the heavens had still covered him with their wings.

 

 

**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

 

we've been near steady waters

for so long now

how many years have it been?

how long did we stare into the blue?

will the time come for us to jump

jump in & bathe?

turning from steady to wild

covering ourselves in blue

 

\-----------------

 

..the St. James Park Lake. For how long has that been their secret meeting point? And for how long had Aziraphale been hoping to make their meetings no longer secret?

 

 

**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

 

there was an explosion

not in my heart, a real one

burning down our skin

turning flesh to ash

if it wasn't for my love

covering you

shielding you away

 

\-----------------

 

Once again, Aziraphale's thoughts went back to that German church. How it blew up because of Crowley, and how Crowley had saved his beloved books.

 

 

**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

 

oh what would I give

to be a book

a poorly written one, even

but delicately placed

in your tender hands

for you to flip through

 

\-----------------

 

Aziraphale blushed a little. _He_ loved books.

 

No, no, it couldn't be. The angel was embarrassed. How could he even reach this kind of conclusion? Had it finally happened, had he gone mad in love? Aziraphale heftily shook his head.

 

How dare he assume Crowley to be the author of such terribly kitschy poems? Crowley, out of all people. The demon who had never even once shown a single glimmer of romance to anyone before in his life. And he had never read a single book before, either. Perhaps the demon thought he could trick Aziraphale, but he knew exactly that he hadn't actually read any of those books. It had been terribly suspicious right from the beginning, his whole pattern of only picking out books which had already been adapted into movies. And when he boasted about Michael Berg, the protagonist of _The Reader_ catching scarlet fever, one of his little sins for humanity, it immediately became completely clear to Aziraphale – everyone who had actually read it knew that he suffered from jaundice in the novel.

 

Of course, Aziraphale never mentioned any of this, he was just happy to be able to talk to Crowley about literature at least a little bit. Even if it was just superficial movie knowledge on Crowley's end. But why would he be so insistent about seeming well-read to Aziraphale?

 

To impress him, perhaps? Once again, Aziraphale had to collect his thoughts. That was most definitely _not_ the reason. Crowley must have had some kind of reason, the angel just had to stop exaggerating everything because of his crush.

 

But the more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. _SinfullSinner666?_ And what about all these crowns before his name?

 

All of these details basically screamed Crowley's name.

 

He was just about ready to stop thinking about this. The angel really didn't want to run into some kind of awkward, embarrassing situation because of all this. But then, another poem caught his attention.

 

 

**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

 

i'd make you my

happy prince

even after 1900

driving me wild

with one of the

oh so wanted

smiles of yours.

 

\-----------------

 

Shocked, Aziraphale powered down his computer (without properly shutting it down first). With the same amount of panic, he got up, and his chair fell over.

 

_The Happy Prince._ One of his favorite works by Oscar Wilde. Oscar Wilde, whom Crowley hated, and hated even more because Aziraphale loved him. _1900_. Oscar Wilde's year of death, and one of Crowley's happiest years. _Driving me wild._ Another not so subtle reference.

This could no longer be written off as just a series of strange coincidences. The last time Aziraphale had felt this caught, this shocked, was when he found out that the “nice and accurate prophecies of Agnes Nutter, witch” were much more than just “nice and accurate”.

Aziraphale really couldn't stop his thoughts from spinning anymore. He let them run.

With haste, the angel reached for his telephone. He dialed the number, the one he could type out blindly without any problems if he wanted to.

_Click._

“Anthony Crowley here. You know what to do, so do it in style.”

 

After the _beep,_ Aziraphale left a nervous message on the answering machine. “U-uhm, yes, hello, this is Aziraphale. I know you're probably still quite upset with me and are currently venting that frustration on your plants, my dear, but we have to talk, urgently! Please call back as soon as you can, or just come by, depending on what you would prefer. I will be in the bookstore, where else, so yes. Please don't be mad for too long.”

 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

Crowley was actually busy with his plants at the moment, but he was very satisfied with them. Thus, they received their water without being yelled at. Not a single brown spot. The demon felt his strategy approved.

 

He heard the angel's voice coming from the answering machine in the next room and listened inquisitively from around the corner. “...in the bookstore, where else, so yes. Please don't be mad for too long. It's really, really urgent, I hope you will hear this soon and come by as soon as you can, my dear. This was Aziraphale.”

 

What could be so urgent? Crowley wondered. The last time he received such an anxious, excited message from Aziraphale was back when they were still trying to prevent Armageddon. Since then there had never been a real reason for such urgency.

 

Did he want to apologize, perhaps? Crowley felt bad just thinking about it. His outburst hadn't been Aziraphale's fault, after all.

 

Somewhat wistfully, Crowley grabbed the jacket he had tossed on a chair and made his way to the bookstore. Under different circumstances, he probably would have taken the Bentley, but it was still in front of the bookstore, abandoned, since Crowley had just spirited himself away like that in his fit.

 

Hopefully, the angel was doing okay?

 

Crowley really hadn't expected to meet him again so soon. Normally, he would either have sulked in his home for a lot longer, or Aziraphale would have locked him out of the bookstore out of anger. Wouldn't be the first time the angel blessed the store so that he couldn't get in. Crowley had missed a dinner invitation by the angel once, and then he couldn't get into the bookstore for an entire year. Afterwards, Aziraphale had claimed that it had been an accident and that he hadn't thought about how saying prayers and blessing his store would make it impossible for Crowley to get in. But his little grin had given him away.

 

When Crowley finally made it to the bookstore, the angel sat before his desk. A sight just as eternal as time itself.

 

“Listen, angel, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have flipped out like that, that was unfair of me”, spoke the demon as he was trying to coolly waltz over to Aziraphale, but the tone in his voice revealed that he was actually, genuinely sorry. “I know how much the heavens mean to you, and it wasn't right of me to tell you to make a decision, or-”

 

“What? Oh, yes.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “I forgive you. But that's not why I called.”

 

“It's not?”, Crowley wondered.

 

The angel shook his head, leaned back in his chair and revealed the screen of his old computer.

 

“How about we read some poems for once, my dear?”


	5. Chapter 4 - The Many Anxietys of Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear reader. I've been on a vacation, so this chapter is coming in a bit late. May you enjoy.

**Chapter 4 – The Many Anxieties of Crowley**

 

_ & i'd sing a heart- _

_ b _ _ r _ _ eaking ballad _

_ about you, your smile _

_ & other things so valid. _

 

By God, this must have been Her work, because this right here was just way too cruel. Crowley recognized the dark and somewhat kitschy design of his blog on the computer screen before Aziraphale. What on Earth was this nauseating feeling? Was he honestly scared?

“That's why you called my here?”, uttered the demon. Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley responded: “Reading poems doesn't seem very urgent to me.”

“Well...” The angel cleared his throat. “You know, I believe that literature always has something...urgent about it. Don't you think? And now that you're suddenly interested in novels, why not introduce you to the world of poetry?”

Why did Crowley feel like he was balancing on a tightrope? It was just Aziraphale, after all; this situation really shouldn't feel so threatening to him.

“I don't think I'd like poetry very much.”

“Oh, no, no”, the angel smiled as he invitingly patted the empty spot on his desk, on which Crowley had taken a seat many times before.

“Aziraphale, if this is supposed to be some sort of odd punishment or-”

The patting rapidly grew more urgent. “I'm an angel, my dear. I don't punish. I forgive.”

Crowley hesitated. “Right. But still, I fail to see what-”

“I just felt guilty about you missing your opportunity to take  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ with you after that fight we had. This is my way of apologizing, and feeding your...literary curiosity, my friend.”

“Well, just give me  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ right now and I'll start reading.”

The angel shook his head. “No, I would prefer if you read this instead.” With demanding eyes and a raised eyebrow, he looked at Crowley, his hand now still on the desk.

The demon sighed. “Okay.” He was good at playing cat and mouse, so why would that change now? He had kept his angelic friend a secret from hell, so it really shouldn't be difficult for him to not embarrass himself right here, right now.

With swinging hips, Crowley lifted his body onto the desk and stared at the screen. Smoothly, he ignored his lower leg touching Aziraphale's knee. He also chose to ignore the angel's terrible inefficiency on the computer.

“Who is this?”, Crowley asked as he looked at his own username as though he had never seen it before.

“SinfullSinner666. A customer recommended him to me; he uploads his poems on this internet window here.”

Crowley nodded, understandingly.  _ Internet window.  _ Right.

The demon decided to approach this situation cautiously. “Do you like his poems?”

“Wouldn't want to spoil anything for you, my dear.” Dammit.

He watched the angel scroll up and down on the site like he was looking for one specific poem.

“Ah!”, exclaimed Aziraphale. A noise well-known to Crowley, a noise he really only ever made when he discovered something enjoyable to him on a restaurant's menu after scanning through it for about half an hour. He selected one of the poems and looked at Crowley in anticipation. 

  
  


**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

where there were

just scars

you carved in 

a smile.

  
  


“Uhm..” Crowley adjusted his shades and tried to prepare some intellectual words to comment on the poem. “Doesn't sound bad.” And failed miserably.

“Really?”, asked Aziraphale, in wonderment. “It's a bit melodramatic, for my taste. Don't you think?”

The demon stared at him. Was he being serious? “Oh yeah? Why."

“Well, the speaker sort of claims to be fully covered in scars. Without ever explaining where these scars actually came from. Are they linked to the speaker's past? Or to this ominous 'you', perhaps? I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, after all, the speaker says that this 'you' helped them smile, but also that it was carved into them. Is this really better than all the other scars? Did 'you' not cause all these scars to begin with? Is this about an abusive relationship?”

Horrified, Crowley stared at the angel. “What?! No. Are you stupid? Do you not understand anything at all about romanticism?”

Aziraphale smirked. “Well, what's your interpretation?”

“Well, the..p-protagonist? Speaker? The speaker! Maybe the speaker isn't covered by real scars at all, perhaps they're just inside their soul? They only ever knew sadness, and loneliness, and all of that left scars inside of them. But then you came around, as in, the 'you', and rather than leaving another scar inside of them, 'you' left them with a smile. It wasn't carved in in a literal sense; perhaps it was just difficult for both of them to get the speaker to smile at all!”

“So 'you' saved the speaker from loneliness?”, pressed Aziraphale.

“Yes”, confirmed Crowley. “Well, probably. I mean, no-one ever really knows what all these authors actually mean, right?”

Aziraphale looked him over. “Their ways are often unfathomable, yes”, he mumbled, and resumed his scrolling through the blog.

“So”, Crowley started, “you don't like that poem?”

“It's not my favorite one, I have to admit. Often, there are large qualitative differences between his poems. It makes me wonder for how long he has been writing these...some of them sound like they're ancient. But of course, that's impossible.”

The demon hissed quietly. “Well, I'm sure not every single one of Oscar Wilde's poems was the bomb, either.”

A small laugh escaped the angel. “Oh, every one of Wilde's poems was a masterpiece.” This only made the demon hiss louder, but he decided not to speak up again.

“Here”, Aziraphale pointed at the screen. The loud sound of his finger tapping against the monitor served as a reminder that this was, in fact, still a CRT monitor. 

  
  


**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

eden gave me an aching pain

it just sent me away

without letting me have a single taste

of the most forbidden fruit

  
  


“This one I enjoy quite a bit”, claimed the angel, and placed an asking hand on the demon's knee. “What do you think?”

“Well, I..” Apparently, a single compliment and some physical affection was all it took to completely derail Crowley at this point. “Yeah, I like it, too. The author really...chose some good words, there.”

“Oh, no, no, I don't think so. In fact, I'm pretty disappointed that most of his poems don't have rhymes in them.”

_ Of course you would be, you ungrateful angel,  _ Crowley grumbled internally.

“But!” Aziraphale took his hand off Crowley's knee and tried to highlight the word  _ Eden  _ with the mouse. And failed. “But, I enjoy the motif.”

“Oh, yeah. Yes, the motif. The motif is truly marvelous.” Crowley couldn't turn off the sarcasm in his voice. Aziraphale smiled.

“What I'm trying to say is that I like the situation this presents us with. The gardens of Eden, the speaker was sent away without being allowed a single taste of that fruit. The 'most forbidden fruit', in this case. And I don't think the speaker means their lover. I think it's quite...poetic, how the author tried to symbolize desire like this. I like that a lot.”

“It's not just desire”, Crowley added.

Aziraphale had been so sure of his interpretation that he blinked at Crowley in confusion. “Not just desire?”

Crowley tried his best not to look the angel in the eyes, and instead directed his gaze toward the little angel-mug on his desk. “The speaker says they were sent away. They are no longer allowed in the gardens of Eden, even though they didn't even take one bite from the fruit. Their desire alone, their love, it already counts as a sin. They can't do anything about that, can't do what they would like to, and because they were banished from Eden, they won't ever get a chance to act again, either. It's about desire  _ and  _ forbidden love.”

The angel was glued to Crowley's lips. “I..never thought about it like that”, he admitted. “But there's one more question I have to ask. Who, do you think, decided that their love is a forbidden one?”

“Those who banished them from Eden.”

“And what about the person their desire is directed at? Perhaps the fruit would like to be eaten.”

The demon stared at him. “I never claimed it was a one-sided love.”

“That would indeed be very sad.” Aziraphale resisted his gaze. “After all the speaker must have gone through, after having been banished from Eden.”

Crowley really didn't like the almost graspable tension between them. “We know nothing about that, though”, he said, and interrupted their stare-off.

Aziraphale also lowered his gaze and once again went back to scrolling through the blog. “True. Over-interpreting isn't very good.”

Crowley really had no clue what all of this was supposed to mean. After all, it was exactly what he had wanted since the beginning: Aziraphale reading his poems. Commenting on them, perhaps, in his smart-alecky way. Yes, even finding mistakes and problems, telling him exactly what he liked and what he didn't. But all of this was supposed to go down with Aziraphale knowing that Crowley wrote these poems. And now he was sitting there, much closer to the angel than he would have liked to be in this situation, trying not to take any of his words personally (and once more failing miserably), trying to mask his identity.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale smiled and stopped at one specific poem. “I found my favorite one of his poems.”

_ Please, don't let it be one of my least favorite ones,  _ Crowley thought.

  
  


**♛♔♕♚ sinfullsinner666:**

i never spend one minute-

  
  


“What are you doing?” The angel's voice interrupted him as he was trying to read the poem.

The demon stared at him confusedly. “I'm..reading it?”

“No, no”, spoke the angel, and shook his head with a smile on his lips. (Crowley remembered how Aziraphale used to do the same thing when he had to watch over Warlock as Brother Francis) “Please read this one out loud, my dear.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”, Crowley asked, ignoring all the years in which Aziraphale had asked him not to use such profane words.

“Well, many poems only really shine if they're read aloud.”

Dismissively, the demon gazed over his glasses. “But I didn't have to read any of the other stupid poems out loud, either!”

“ _The other_ _stupid poems._ ” Aziraphale enjoyed mimicking Crowley's angry tone of voice sometimes. Much like Crowley enjoyed mimicking the angel's sublime way of speaking. “Well, _the other stupid poems_ weren't my favorite ones.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and looked at the screen. “I never spend one minute..-”

Once more, he was interrupted. “Could you put a little more...emotion into it, my dear?”

The demon hissed. “Do it yourself, then, angel.”

“Please?” Aziraphale's voice was soft and gentle, and Crowley was always surprised at how easily he fell for it every time. “For me?”

Muttering  _ something  _ under his breath, Crowley once again directed his gaze toward the screen and took a deep breath.

“Okay, thank you! Now, please, from the beginning.” Crowley imagined Aziraphale's regrets about never having been a teacher at any point during his eternal existence. And if Crowley had paid more attention to his angel, he probably would have noticed the tiny endearing grin on his face.

 

“i never spend one minute

of our eternity not thinking

about you & only you.”

 

It felt strange. Strange, to say these words out loud, after all this time, with his angel directly next to him. Stranger yet to know that the angel didn't know that he meant these words exactly as he spoke them.

Insecure, he looked back at Aziraphale. And when he responded with his eyes, he couldn't quite tell what the angel's look meant.

“Is this the truth, my dear?”


	6. Chapter 5 - The Many Evasions of Crowley

**Chapter 5 - The Many Evasions of Crowley**

 

he placed a kiss upon my cheek

it was the right & stained spots red

that my rouge couldn't reach

 

_Nanny Ashtoreth loved her place by the windowsill. Every day in the afternoon, when dear mother would leave the house with Warlock to buy the increasingly bossy boy (this was noted as a huge success for Hell) some ice cream, Ashtoreth would sit down by the window with her own ice cream. Normally, she never ate, but she did enjoy seeing Warlock's whiny face when he realized that the last ice cream had mysteriously gone missing again._

 

_Satisfied with herself, Ashtoreth looked out into the garden and grew even more satisfied when she spotted Brother Francis. He himself had found a comfortable spot in the shade, and right next to him stood a basket full of red apples, one of which he was currently peeling. Ashtoreth could already hear his voice inside her head: “Well, Miss Ashtoreth, I tend to these apple trees every day. I'm not going to comment on the irony behind all this, but wouldn't you agree that it'd only be fair if I ate one of these apples every now and then? To me it seems like you're raising young Warlock with candy, rather than apples. This, too, shall remain without comment.” Not like they ever had a conversation like that before._

 

_In the last few days, she and Brother Francis had hardly talked to each other. She didn't know if it was because of the ever growing influence of hell on the boy and the loss of heavenly influences altogether (not to mention that Ashtoreth always rubbed this fact in), or if it was because Francis didn't feel comfortable in her proximity. She had actually started binding her corsets much tighter than before, quietly hoping to attract his attention, much like she had begun wearing dresses with the hem just above her ankles – and had stopped doing that again after Francis had nicely (yet blushingly) pointed it out to her._

 

_Or maybe there just wasn't a reason. Perhaps Brother Francis was just too busy gardening, and Nanny Ashtoreth had too much work with the child – maybe they had just grown that human after all these years, and they were just too busy._

 

_Lost in thought, she watched one piece of an apple after the other disappear in Francis' mouth as she stroked the black book lying on her lap. It was much too old by now, and she was always surprised by its nigh perfect condition. Ashtoreth smiled and looked down at the book, opened it and pressed the penholder to her lips. Gold and blue engravings. The colors of heaven._

 

_Ashtoreth couldn't quite tell why Francis was currently moving his lips and looking exactly the way he would when he was just about to strike up a song while lost in thought. She speculated that he was trying to feed the birds. She wanted to hear his humming, or perhaps singing, and she desired even more to sit next to him – over there in the shade, leaning on his side, listening quietly._

 

_The pen moved elegantly across the rough paper, and before she put it down she finished the last letter off with an artsy, curved line. Self-satisfied and with a smile on her lips, she stroked the last word and immediately pulled back her fingers with a hiss as she noticed that she had smeared the fresh ink. She got up to wash her hands, and, with a last glance at her writing, closed the book._

 

**i never spend one minute**

**of our eternity not thinking**

**about you & only you.**

 

Crowley's first impulse was laughter. Maniacal laughter, even. Much like little school boys, when they were asked out by pretty girls. Just start laughing, perhaps point a finger at them and ask “with you?” in a condescending tone. The impulse really itched in his limbs, it was the most demonic thing he could currently think of – but it would be mean. It would be infinitely mean, and he didn't want to be.

 

In the next second, he wanted to deny everything. He was great at talking himself out of things. He had evaded any and all work in hell for millennia, just because he was so gifted when it came to twisting the facts. It had, however, never worked on Aziraphale.

 

His next idea was drama. If there was something the demon was really damn good at, it was his talent to make a scene. He had already created a complete choreography before his inner eye: first he would angrily jump up from the desk, and perhaps bang his fist on it while he was already at it. Then he would march over to the door and declare all of this absolutely ridiculous and disappointing in a painfully high voice. He would take take the potted plant that he had gifted Aziraphale back with him, of course, and then slam the door shut. Afterwards, he would fall into a deep slumber and only visit the bookstore again in 2119, and the only thing he would find there would be a futuristic manual with instructions on how to board a spaceship that transports you to a bookstore planet (after all, Aziraphale had drunkenly confessed to him how much he wished for aliens to be just as interested in literature as he is).

 

However, Crowley just sat there. Silent, lost in thought, attempting to imagine Aziraphale talking to little green beings about Schiller. And Aziraphale also just sat there, without saying a word. Although he at least gazed at the demon as he tried to convince himself that he hadn't just made a ginormous mistake. Never before had his friend been so taciturn. Traumatized, even.

 

“Crowley?”, offered the angel as he placed a gentle hand on Crowley's knee.

 

And suddenly, life shot through the demon's body. Uniting all three of his strategies, he jumped up from the desk, banged his fist on the table, uttered a somewhat insecure “No!”, and then fake-laughed. Loudly.

 

“No?”, Aziraphale asked, quietly.

 

“Well, of course! No!” Crowley didn't quite know how to portion his laughter. “That's not me! Those aren't my words. How am I supposed to know, well, how should I know, what truth is?”

 

The angel stared at his friend. “I'm also wondering about that, right now.”

 

“Hah!” The demon tossed his arms up in the air. “Precisely!”

 

“Crowley”, Aziraphale started, “my dear, are you feeling alright?”

 

“Of course!” More laughter. “Never felt better before. Great poems, by the way, angel. Really good stuff. Fantastic idea, honestly. Exciting, and eye-opening! “

 

Worried, Aziraphale got up. “Crowley, I didn't mean to anger you, I just thought that..-”

 

“What?” Crowley was already looking for his plant. “That I would write something like that? I'm a demon, angel! If I wrote something, it would be about....death, or darkness, but certainly not about kitschy things like that! And especially not stuff that you don't even enjoy.”

 

“I never said I didn't like..-”

 

“Whatever.” Crowley gave up on searching. “As I said: not a huge fan of poetry.”

 

“Crowley!”

 

The demon gave him a fake yawn. “Huge fan of sleeping, though! Think I'm gonna allow myself a nice, balanced nap.”

 

“Crowley, don't you dare..-”

 

“See you, Aziraphale.”

 

And the demon had vanished.

 

But Aziraphale knew. He knew that the poems were his, and he knew that every single one of his words were true. But he was greedy, and needed to hear it for himself. Perhaps he wanted to hear even more than what was already written down. He just couldn't understand how greedy he had been to ask more of Crowley than he had ever given him before. He stared at the flickering computer screen, sat down on his chair, and rubbed his face. Exhausted, defeated.

 

And Crowley was ashamed of himself. He was so, so ashamed, and he was such a stupid coward. He was angry and disappointed with himself, and as he crawled into his warm bed with a distorted expression on his face, he wondered. Why.

 

_I am a demon._

 

Aziraphale wasn't the only one who just couldn't leave his nature behind. And of course Crowley hated to admit that he was more of a demon than he would like to be. But where he had fulfilled his role as a demon in denying and negating his love, he had simultaneously failed as a demon when he fled the scene, panicking. 

 

He should have said yes, and so much more than that. But he had been afraid, and Crowley couldn't help but think that these six thousand years had taken a much greater toll on him than he had thought.

 

With Aziraphale's worrying eyes in mind, he drowned his head in the snow white of his pillow, and drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit shorter than normal, but we're heading to the big climax.


End file.
